Political gossip columns throughout the American South are awash this week with news of an alleged Democrat conspiracy to unsettle the Bush administration, as pressure grows following the announcement yesterday of the tragic death of the 2,305th American to die in Iraq since the country was freedomified in 2003

Having been pilloried by the press last month for taking four days to announce the accidental shooting of Campaign contributor, Harry Whittington, rumours now abound that the ranch hand responsible for leaking the original story is, in fact, a card carrying Democrat.

Ilyke Gysenotgaals, right hand to ranch owner, Mr. Armstrong, told Utterpants that he felt it was his duty to inform the press that not only had the Vice President shot his friend, but that he had done so without the proper legal permit—a fact overlooked by investigators in the weeks following the incident.

“Well I sure knew them guys had sumpn’ planned,” Mr Gysenotgaals told our reporter as he offered him a thumb of menthol, organic chewing tobacco. “For weeks Mr. Armstrong has had me 'n’ ‘em other ranch hands cleanin’ the place up. We got it lookin’ lovely, yesiree. Hank junior picked up the nicest pelmet for the barn you ever will see and young Clarence over there has run us up some real purty floral print, chenille chaps.”
He paused to glance at coyly at Clarence before adding huskily: “Clarence knows just know how much I love slippin’ into a nice, fresh pair of chaps.”
He scuffed his patent buckskin heel on the dust as he thrust a hard working, but well manicured hand deep into the pocket of his Levis, the other catching tobacco laden dribble with a silk handkerchief from his toned, exfoliated and moisturised, chin.

Mr. Gysenotgaals found out about the proposed hunting trip in late February when he overheard a telephone conversation between his employer and the Vice President’s secretary. Mr. Gysenotgaals—who asked us to call him Butch—said, “Well, from what I could gather, President Bush was pissed at that thar Dan Quayle for not only havin’ the audacity to stand against him in elections a few years back, but also 'cause he'd just discovered Mr Quayle has become the first ever Vice President to have a mooseum named after him.”

According to 'Butch' Gysenotgaals, it was the President’s intention to lure Dan Quayle to the ranch under the premise that he wanted to give him a present of a deerskin hat, complete with antlers. When he discovered that the slippery senator was out of the country on business, the president’s party decided to go quail shooting instead. Ilyke told Utterpants, “I was practicin’ some new positions with my mount, round by Blokesack Mountain on the day of the shootin’. Now I’m quite the Japanese Taoist and was workin' myself up to the clouds and the rain while thinkin' about Clarence's toned and muscular body stooping over a hitchin' rail, when all hell broke loose. I was nowhere near the bursting of the clouds and my mount was barely bucking from the force of my heavenly dragon pillar, but I done dropped my load when some ol' lawyer ran, a-hollerin' and a-bleedin' through the paddock. Well I jumped from my mount making sure to wipe my jade stem on his saddle, before goin’ to see what all the fuss was about.”

By the time Ilyke Gysenotgaals arrived back at the ranch, a cordon of FBI agents had surrounded the main buildings and a helicopter was landing to take Whittington to hospital.
“There was one agent there, a big black guy, he was really sump'n. I commented on the size of his weapon as the chopper flew off with Whittington, and the agent, Theodore, gave me his card,” Mr Gysenotgaals told us before hobbling painfully to the bathroom, like a cowboy who has just come off his horse. Apparently he and Theodore have met up a couple of times since the incident and despite some initial struggles, fit well together.

Asked how he felt about Mr Cheney waiting four days to speak publicly about the incident, Ilyke said: “Well...he probably needed a coupla days to calm down. Last time I saw him at the ranch he was furious. Kept hollerin', “that tight bastard Whittington. $3000 in three years? You can’t get a fucking round of coffees in Starbucks for that these days.”